The rest is the work
the birth of no-laptop-Sunday
Thick snow blanketed the long, slow climb to Lincoln, yellow grass tips poking through like wisps on an old man’s scalp. Just before the last curves by the willows where I always expect to see a moose, I realized I’d left my phone at home. An hour out and sunset not far off, I decided to go ahead without it. I’d be away for just over 48 hours, and my laptop allows texting and all the other functions with wifi. I’d be fine.
I was reading Rest is Resistance by Tricia Hersey. This book is an essay, a meditation and a call to action all at once. Hersey implores readers to reject our capitalist society’s demands for more labor, more production, more profits. She calls us to rest, not in service of enhancing our post-nap work, but simply in service of our divine selves. Hersey says, “The rest is the work.” This book has a deep foundation in African-American experiences with generations of forced labor and so some features were not applicable to me, except in that I will reflect on myself as an operator of the machine. But also, a gear in that machine. She directs readers not to gum up the machine, but rather to step out of it and walk away.
Walking away was much on my mind as I drove farther north, out of a wooded and snowy Rogers Pass and onto the swaying prairie. To the west the Backbone’s teeth jagged along the horizon just beyond the Blackfeet Nation. Blue sky and a bleached white expanse shredded my eyes.
The dashboard thermometer dropped and dropped. Two days before my arrival, my destination’s morning low was -35º before wind chill. On this day the place had warmed to just above zero, and with full sun and no wind one nearly felt as though jackets were optional.
I dashed into the hotel and opened my laptop, only to find a below-average onslaught of emails. I texted my kids to advise them not to call until I returned. Then I closed the computer and pulled out my book.
Missoula’s received a satisfying amount of snow this year. We’re above normal and I’m all for it. Many people don’t heed the city’s ordinance to shovel their sidewalks, making a neighborhood stroll somewhat of a dangerous undertaking. Unless you want to post-hole through 10 inches of snow, you must walk in the street, itself also not plowed. Cars careen through intersections in attempts to not get stuck in the slushy corners. For this reason and because of our HOA, I’m a devout shoveler.
On Sunday mornings I usually spend a couple of laptop hours slashing my way through the minutiae of life things, leaving behind detritus and more dust that needs additional attention. Often I look up and it’s early afternoon and I regret wasting the day. But when I woke this past Sunday, another 3 inches had fallen overnight and so after my outside coffee, I picked up the shovel. After that the shower beckoned, and then I wanted some additional rest. I fell asleep reading on the couch. When I came to, lunch seemed like a good idea. Then I worked on my quilt, took a walk, and after that another nap. About 4 pm I realized I’d inadvertently initiated no-laptop-Sunday and spent the rest of the day reading until my kids arrived for dinner.
The minutes on Sunday trickled by, like the slow seep of an underground spring. I daydreamed, as Hersey recommends. I fed myself. I rested. No errand, no task was more important than respite. Even my overburdened furnace seemed more intent on accomplishing its singular chore than I felt about anything. By nightfall I felt I’d lived a week in that one day, so deeply did I absorb each quiet minute.
Skimming for hours across snow-washed plains, shaving the blurry edge of the pavement while squinting through the low February sun feels like this. Like the only way to reach where we are supposed to be, requires gliding atop a thin gauze of awareness while the deep work of connection happens in a dark and restful place.
I like this.